A Bird Sings
by MelodicWhispers
Summary: At 18 years old, Melody has had the average life. Except one night, where dimensional plates seem to shift and collide, trapping her in a world she once knew only from afar. From her bed to a lake to the Opera Populaire in Paris, Melody must do her best to try to keep the story together the way it should be, all whilst deciding whether or not she wants to leave magic for mundanity.
1. Prologue

Melody had no idea what had gotten into her. Perhaps it was previous whispers turning to shouts, ordering her attention to the wondrous music. And as unusual as it was right now, she welcomed it wholeheartedly. For most of her life, she had pushed away music, ironic to her name, but her Angel came and taught her. A pity, now that they had parted just as music became the master to her soul.

Her lips curved upwards to a faint smile as she thought about him briefly, but she soon turned her attention back to the image she drew. A lone figure was shrouded in a black cloak, whilst his dark angelic wings folded on his back. It was by no means the best, but it was good enough for her. She glanced at it once more, wondering if she should destroy it before she looked back at it with judgemental eyes, but thought better of it. It hurt too much to think right now - a fever was waging war against her body, gradually being defeated. Too gradually for her liking.

No matter; it would pass in time. It wasn't often she was seriously ill. With that as a comfort, she threw her book to the side, getting up from sitting on her bed and grabbing a movie from the closest cupboard. Really she ought to be working on her studies, but she didn't much care for that right now. _'It can wait,'_ she smiled, sitting back as she began to play the movie, opting to wish away her sickness in dreams of the Opera Ghost.

Melody's eyes slipped shut, her mind unfocusing into the comfort of sleep. It was this that stopped her from noticing a burst of light as shadows appeared to clash against each other, disappearing silently. The light grew, enveloping the room until it was the sleeping girl's body was the only object left visible. That too, however, soon vanished under the white. And when it faded, she was gone.

What she knew next was coldness. The feeling of being choked as water flooded into her mouth, startling her awake. Though she was a fairly decent swimmer, the shock left her confused at directions, leaving her splashing around pathetically with no success. Had she opened her eyes, all she's see would be flickering lights beyond a murky barrier, but what she did notice unconsciously was the sounds of something else splashing. Something that seemed to be drawing closer and closer with each passing second until strong arms yanked her body upwards out of the water.

Coughing violently, she clutched at her unseen saviour, fearful they'd let go of her back to drown. Their touch was careful as they pried her off, only holding her enough to stop her falling back. With a flutter of her eyelids, she managed to see a flash of white amongst the black which cloaked the stranger before the coughs subsided and her mind fell into unconsciousness.

Her saviour muttered, picking up the young girl and walking out from the lake. He laid her down on a bed laden with red silk, and stepped back to look at her for a brief moment.

"Maintenant, quelle etes-vous exactement, hmm?"


	2. Chapter 1

When I awoke, my body was on fire - or rather, it felt like it was, a strange contrast to the drowning cold I felt what seemed like moments ago. My head was far too dizzy to even just think about sitting up, so instead I tried my best to glance around at my surroundings.

The room I lay in was enclosed by stone walls with a plain, thick wooden door, but despite this, I could still hear a soft organ music playing from outside floating through. A large, ornate mirror was placed next to an even larger wardrobe and dresser. Next to me sat a beautifully carved writing desk, the type I could only dream of owning one day. Finally was the bed I lay in, and from my limited perspective, it was shaped into some kind of bird, but specifics were out of my view. My own body was clothed with a long and flowing ivory nightgown, instead of my previous garments, and I blushed knowing that somebody had done this. At least my underwear was still on, and thankfully dry from my unwilling swim. No windows were found in this room, which I thought rather bizarre, and instead several candles lit it up, providing warmth to the otherwise dark atmosphere. Whoever had decorated this place had a beautiful yet old-fashioned taste.

Once my head had settled enough to move, I clawed my way from the silken bed and promptly discovered my legs too weak to support myself. With a loud cry, I fell to the floor swearing profusely and shaking. Almost immediately the soft organ stopped, and my door was flung open. Whoever it was, someone ran over and cautiously, firmly, lay me back down on the bed, all the while chastising me in French.

"Arrêtez, vous fille stupide. Vous sera seulement blesser plus." They murmured to me, but I could only stare at them blankly. A plain white mask covered half my saviour's face, whilst piercing blue eyes began to study me. His hair was slicked back, as black as a raven's feather, and he wore a fine black suit, a black waistcoat patterned with silver and a white shirt. Calloused, rough hands gently began to take my pulse and estimate my temperature whilst his velvet voice spoke to me.

Thanks to my miniscule knowledge of French, most of the words were lost to me, but from what I did understand mixed with his tone that became angrier as I stared dumbly, I gathered it was an attempt to interrogate me.

"Qui es-tu? Comment êtes-vous arrivé ici? Que s'est-il passé? Pourquoi vous êtes muet, fille? Me parler! Prendre la parole!" Each passing word got louder and louder until his voice echoed in the room, and his hold on me tightened uncomfortably. Desperate to placate him, I scoured my little French vocabulary.

"Je suis désolé, Monsieur, je suis désolé. Je parle un peu de Français. Je parle Anglais! Je parle Anglais!"

He paused, loosening his grip on my wrist and took a breath. "You are English then? My apologies, Mademoiselle, for my assumption on your language. However, my questions remain," those blue eyes held my own and I found I could not look away. "Who are you? How did you get here? Why, Mlle?"

My voice seemed to dry up in my throat, as words were slow and janky to form in my mind. "I, uh…" I frowned, closing my eyes to think back and hissed through my teeth when it hit me. I knew this man. I had heard his velveteen voice slither into my ears before, saw his sapphire eyes from behind a pixelated screen. But that was fiction, surely? Nevertheless, the resemblance was eerie. "My name is Melody, Monsieur. Melody Bird. And I… I don't know, Monsieur. I don't know!"

This epiphany shocked me more than the recognition of my saviour. My voice broke, stumbling over my words as I weakly tried to remove myself from his hands. He remained strong, refusing to let my slip his grasp should I fall to the floor again. So instead I panicked, screwing up my eyelids tightly and forcing myself to not cry in fear of this unknown reality. When it became obvious to my saviour that I could, and would not say any more on the subject, he sighed and stood up.

"Do not move." He commanded, walking away momentarily only to return with a strange green liquid. "You have a fever, and have been asleep for a day or so. I changed you into dry clothes so you would not freeze, but you need medicine also. Here." He spoke with a detached tone, speaking more out of necessity, but I could not help but hear the beauty in his voice.

With my body still weak, he helped sit me up to drink. The medicine was thick and bitter, yet an overly sweet aftertaste somehow managed to appear. I gagged, but he held fast until all of it was gone. A soft smile crossed my lips in a silent thank you, but he opted for quiet and ignored my smile, leaving the room with my door still open. Soon after I had relaxed back into the bed, the organ began to play once more and a lullaby flowed into the air. His music was as hypnotising as claimed, and I was helpless to stop the music from lulling me down to a dreamless sleep again.

The next time I woke up, I felt significantly less on fire, which I was thankful for. Though my head was still half-asleep, I managed to pull myself up into a sitting position, thinking better of trying to stand up again in case I should fail. Clearing my throat loudly, I called out, unsure of what to call my saviour. "Monsieur? Pardon, Monsieur?"

In response I heard a small thud and footsteps making their way over to my room as he appeared at my doorway, devoid of any expression on his face. "Yes?"

Anxious, I glanced away from eye contact as I always do with strange people and spoke to him. "I was wondering if I could ask a few things, as well as have a glass of water. That is, of course, if you don't mind, Monsieur." He nodded and fetched some water, handing it to me silently and taking the chair from the desk to sit on beside me.

The water was a cool relief and helped to ease the headache that was forming. Whilst I drank, I collected my thoughts together, trying to figure out what happened before I questioned him. _'So, how can this be? This man sounds, moves and acts exactly as how I imagined him to be... but that's fiction! A work of art, nothing more.'_ Sighing, I looked back up at him quickly as he waited expectantly.

"Monsieur, I apologise for my actions and being here, even if I don't know how. I don't wish to be a bother, but I've become one with this and I want to thank you for being so gracious." I said quietly, blushing as he drew in a shocked breath. Before he could speak, I continued. "But... I have to ask. Who are you? What do I call you...? And... and where am I?"

"Mlle, you may call me... Fantôme," his accent flowed over the simple words in a way reminiscent of an artist creating a masterpiece - utterly beautiful and natural. Inside my head, I smiled; I knew enough French to recognise 'Phantom'. "This is Paris, France. Nearby is the Opera Populaire, the Opera house here." Manoeuvring over my questions, he answered with just enough detail to satisfy me whilst still keeping his aura of anonymity about him. But the smile in my head slipped to a frown as he unknowingly confirmed my thoughts. _'That means it is true... I am really here, in the story. The Phantom of the Opera, oh god.'_

"That means I must ask this, and apologies in advance but... when are we, Monsieur Fantôme?" I stuttered, not knowing if I wanted to be before the story, during or after - none of them were better than the other times. Embarrassed, I looked up at him to find him frowning at me, perhaps a hint of confusion and concern in his eyes.

"Mlle, this is 1881..." His voice was slow, as if he was unsure of why he would be having to say it. In hindsight, I guess it would be a stupid thing to say when I supposedly should have known, even if I was from England. After all, time travel or universal travel couldn't possibly exist. Still, this meant I was a few months before the storyline and thus I wouldn't have to worry about any dramatics for a while; if I couldn't get home beforehand.

 _'Home. Oh god, what about my home?'_ I swore aloud and he tutted at this, clearly not approving of my modern freedom of vulgar language. Ignoring it, I moved to leave the bed but his hands immediately pushed me back.

"Don't." He ordered, and I instantly stopped. I did not want to push him, knowing the power of his anger. "You need rest. Besides, I don't know if I can allow you to leave. People don't come here without my previous invitation, and yet you somehow did so, a forgetful stranger..." He mused, blue eyes once again locking mine as he thought for a moment. And then he stood abruptly, and began to leave.

"Wait, Monsieur Fantôme! Please... if I can't leave like this, or at all yet, may I at least have some books to read? And perhaps some paper to write on?" My request made him pause, but he nodded finally and I grinned, appreciative of this gesture. "Merci, Monsieur." And then he was gone once more.


	3. Chapter 2

I was permitted to leave the confines of my bed a few hours later, thanks to my constant sighs purposely irritating Monsieur Fantôme to the point that he gave up on expecting me to rest. I wasn't, however, allowed to walk about, and instead I curled up on a comfortably worn armchair in his living area next to several bookshelves overflowing with books. On the wall beside this, a big and finely decorated organ dominated the atmosphere, and Monsieur sat in front of it, furiously writing on some pieces of paper and playing short pieces of music repetitively until he was satisfied with the sound. A small kitchen and dining table stood off on the other side of the room, and double doors presumably led to the outside where the lake lapped against stone stairs. Another door beside the organ led to some room, which I assumed was his bedroom since he rarely went in there. Finally another door acted as a bathroom, relatively modern thanks to Monsieur's genius.

I had quickly taken upon calling him Monsieur, despite knowing his name to be Erik, since I gathered it would only cause more trouble if it somehow slipped out that I knew more than said. Writing it all down would also be a bad idea, even if I wanted nothing more than to use this to order my thoughts, because it would be all too simple for him to take it away and read. And true to his written behaviour, Monsieur Fantôme didn't seem to eat or sleep much at all. If I were not so ill, I would be starving, but even the thought of eating made me feel nauseous, so I kept quiet. Thankfully, the books he owned were both of fiction and otherwise, allowing me to devour one after another – of course I could only read the English versions, limiting my choice somewhat. Regardless, it was pleasant enough to just observe from my little spot on the chair.

"Mlle?" His voice wasn't enough to break me out of my world of reading, so he swiftly played a couple of sour notes on his organ, startling me too look up. He was clearly bored of his musical frustrations in order to actually want to talk. "Apologies, but you were too caught up to hear me." I blushed, embarrassed, and avoided his gaze. "What can you do?"

"Pardon, Monsieur? I don't quite understand." Frowning, I closed the book I was reading and shook my head as he gestured towards his various musical instruments, chuckling. "I cannot play anything. I once played a recorder, several years ago, but soon stopped as it is the most annoying sound after all. Honestly, despite my name, music is not my forte – trust me on that."

"Sing then, perhaps?" He suggested, turning to face me properly but my chuckles turned to a laugh at this.

"Oh god, that's even worse. I _can_ sing, and by that I mean I can sing _terribly_. You'd go deaf if you heard me." I grinned at his obvious disbelief I could be _that_ bad and continued on. "I've only ever sang at someone's request once, and they are special to me. But I have high doubts it will ever happen again, Monsieur Fantôme, no matter how similar he is to you."

And indeed they were similar. The one I call my Angel and the one Christine calls her Angel were both flawed with potent tempers, whilst still amazing with passionate obsessions over music and other arts. Even dressing similarly, despite the change of times, and the way they both moved… it was almost painful. The few differences between the two, however, were obvious thanks to the time periods. My Angel was obsessed with fandoms excessively and couldn't play any instruments despite composing when he could, whereas Erik did not know what fandoms were and could play a whole list of instruments. What did not differ between them at all was their beauty.

Monsieur Fantôme looked at me, and I could tell he was wondering who the man I spoke of was but thought better of asking me for which I was grateful. I had not asked him about his mask at all, and I did not intend to unless there was trust (though I knew what would be underneath, and would not care), so I was glad of this courtesy extended to me also. He nodded once, then walked over and gently guided me up and to his organ, despite my surprised protests.

"Then you must learn something, at least, Mlle Melody. You must be able to be proud of such a name, and we've little else to do. I will teach you." When I tried to get up again, he glared at me sternly and I froze. Finally I relented, and he pushed through teaching me various scales. I could tell why Christine was so skilled at singing; Monsieur was a surprisingly wonderful teacher – he was patient when I fumbled around, kind yet firm in his words and demonstrations and gave me enough space to practice without relying on him wholly. I barely noticed the time slipping by until I realised it was him mostly playing, and my eyelids were starting to droop. Gently, he led me back to the chair where I dozed off briefly until a warm, delicious scent filled the air. Yawning, I saw him holding out a small bowl of broth to me which I obediently ate and wow, he was a good cook for someone that doesn't eat often. When the soup was gone, and I could barely move I was so exhausted, he softly carried me back to my bed. With a soft smile of my face, I fell quickly into a deep sleep.

* * *

"Monsieur, will you teach me French?" A couple of weeks had passed since I had arrived, and the lessons on the organ continued every day for a few hours. Now no longer ill, I was free to move about his underground house and discovered he had a beautiful cat named Ayesha after two days of my arrival. For no reason, she and I immediately formed a bond and would cuddled up together as I read books until several hours had passed – I knew her treacherous behaviour annoyed Monsieur to no end, so I made sure to play with her in his presence, just to entertain myself. Perhaps it was because my cat from home adored me as well that she and I became lose in the short-time. Whatever it was, I wasn't complaining.

"French? Why, Mlle?" He turned to me, curious at my request. He and I didn't communicate with each other much, only when needed in this routine or our lessons – sharing each other's company in silence was enough. And since it was obvious I had no where to go, he allowed me to stay here without question. Occasionally, he would disappear for a few hours every day out of this place, probably to teach Christine to sing, and during which I'd write my poetry or stories to pass the time. But that was all.

"Because… I can't stay here forever, as you and I both know. But I imagine being fluent in the language would help living here greatly." I rolled my eyes, earning yet another tut from him, something aimed to me quite frequently. "Please, Monsieur Fantôme."

"As you wish, Mlle Melody. We'll start tomorrow." He turned back to his organ again, but I moved towards him suddenly and put my hand on his arm. He stiffened, tense at what I may do next, so I took a step back and allowed him to relax.

"And… will you tell me some things about you? I mean… I've invaded your home and yet you and I do not know each other well. I must admit, I am rather curious."

"I know you, though," his blue eyes looked right at me for a second. I raised an eyebrow, challenging him to continue. "You're 18, yet seem older than you should be for your age. You enjoy the colour purple and blue. You hate wearing dresses and especially corsets, and it seems you've never worn them before. You adore listening to music and crave to be able to play and sing well. And you take pride in your writing."

I backed away, confused at how he knew all this until I caught his guilty eyes flickering briefly to my writing book. Immediately, I felt anger at the core of my body and I growled. "That was private, Monsieur. You had _no_ right to read that! How dare you, you little prying Pandora?!" Without waiting for his answer, I ran to my room and shut it, taking refuge in his absence. _'Damn him, damn him!'_ I flung the book onto the bed, pacing back and forth. So much for trying to get to know this man personally, instead of just what I already knew. Picking up the book once more, checking to see if there was any damage at my careless throw, I sat down at my desk and took a pencil. Instead of my usual writing, I began to sketch.

I knew that I needed to relieve my anger, and suppression would not work, so instead I drew a lone puppet. It knelt on the floor, lopsided but still with taut strings. The figure was easy to draw, but as I started on its face, I found that my hands could not translate my mental image onto the paper. Nothing I could do was perfect, the smile was too wide or the eyes too small, too thin of a nose or wispy hair. Giving up, I ripped out the image and burnt it with the candle next to me. I knew my own Angel wouldn't be pleased, he never was when I destroyed my work that I saw as imperfect, but he wasn't around to stop me anymore.

A knock on my door made me jump and my anger dissipated, so I spoke aloud my consent for Monsieur to enter. He stood awkwardly, clearly unused at having to apologise. His hand unconsciously reached up to brush against his mask as he saw my book in front of me, associating his breach of privacy with my book to other's breach of privacy to his mask. He had forcibly unveiled my appearance through writing, though I had not touched his through appearance.

"I apologise, Melody. Art is personal and should only be shared through invitation, but I ignored this. Forgive me." My eyes softened, hearing these words, and I nodded to which he let out a small sigh of relief before exiting again.


	4. Chapter 3

The morning after, as I walked out of my room and Ayesha came purring over to see me, I noticed a complete silence in the lair. Usually, Monsieur was up playing music by the time I had awaken, but this time I seemed to be alone. A smile flicked across my face as I relished the chance to breathe in solitude. Finally, I could relax without worrying if I'd slip up as it had been a while since Monsieur had gone on one of his short trips outside.

Taking advantage of this, I made my way to the kitchen and began to cook some bread and eggs for breakfast. The tune of the title song for here entered my mind, so I soon began to hum the music, occasionally whispering the words aloud. Ayesha mewed at me, curling on a seat nearby and watching me with wide eyes when I started to dance around the kitchen.

"Bonjour, Mlle." I screamed a little, jumping up and spinning to find Monsieur already fully dressed and apparently back from where he had ventured. Swearing under my breath, I shook my head and glared at his amused smirk. "You seem to be enjoying your morning, I see." He teased, a hand reaching out to pet Ayesha. "Though you ought to watch your language. It is unladylike."

Rolling my eyes once more, I had to remind myself of the time period here. Women were treated far differently than I desired. "Where did you disappear off to then, Monsieur?" I asked, going back to my cooking. It didn't matter he was here now – I knew he wouldn't eat even if I offered to cook for him.

"Out." Came his short reply, and I frowned. "To an… acquaintance, though he'd say friend. You'll meet him later. He is arriving for dinner." Pausing slightly, I thought for a moment. Perhaps this was the Daroga, Nadir? Regardless, any friend of Monsieur's was surely interesting enough to meet. "I've placed a dress for you to wear on your bed, not one out of your wardrobe." He continued on, and though the stubbornness in me wanted to say no and choose myself, I knew he had good taste so I remained silent. "Once you've eaten, we'll commence your lessons early."

* * *

Our lessons were longer than usual, probably because we had little to do but wait for his friend, and I will admit that the French was irritating me incredibly. The music lessons were easier since the sound was easy to hear when I made a mistake, and could be resolved quickly. But the language was far more difficult, particularly today for some reason. It wasn't him as a teacher, he was splendid and patient as ever with my mistakes, but rather that I couldn't seem to wrap my head around learning anew instead of just learning translations. Usually he would make me take a few seconds to calm down, but this time he stopped entirely and grabbed my arm, forcibly taking me away from my desk to by his organ.

"Your anger and sadness will serve you no use in learning my language, but in the dialect of music, you may find it has more meaning than that for which you've ever given it credit." His voice suddenly took on a stern edge, ordering me to stay but I shook my head and attempted to move. Strong and stubborn as he is, Monsieur's hands held me down and refused to let me leave. I sighed, resigning myself to his wish and thought briefly. I remembered once learning a piece of music to impress a friend, someone I've long since cut out of my life, and so I tried my best to remember the notes and began to play. His touch slowly relaxed as I grew less nervous, pushing myself into the music. Although there was no chance I'd sing aloud, inside my head was echoing the lyrics.

Eventually I stopped playing and he nodded, a small smile. "Beautiful. You're improving. It helped, I presume?" I grinned at him, a lot better than I felt before. "Good. Now change. My guest will be arriving soon. He's, unfortunately, never late."

Laid out on my bed was a beautiful burgundy dress, perfectly matching the colour of my hair. The corset was as painful as ever but the feeling of grace once my clothes were all on almost made up for it. Not wanting to make a bad first impression, I tried my best to style my long hair enough so that the waves wouldn't be frizzy. Next came the make up, something I was never great at before in the modern world, so I only applied minimal here – a small amount to hide my lack of experience at using it. Looking in my mirror, I felt proud of myself. The only thing I liked about modern clothes was the comfort, but I found this much prettier and nicer to wear. They… suited me here. Hiding a smile, I walked back out and awaited the arrival.

* * *

The moment Monsieur stilled at his organ was the moment I knew his guest was here. Loud footsteps echoed outside until a tall, average-sized man waltzed in confidently. He wore a wine-red suit, embellished with gold, and a white silk shirt. Upon seeing me reading at the armchair, he marched over and held out his hand, kissing mine when I gave it to him. "Bonjour, Mademoiselle. C'est un plaisir. Je m'appelle Nadir."

Comparing myself to the two of them, I instantly felt like a dwarf. Both men were superbly tall, and whilst I was used to Monsieur Fantôme's height, this reminded me exactly how short I was. _'Wonderful.'_ I thought, but smiled at the Daroga. "Bonjour, Monsieur Nadir. Je m'appelle Melody. Parlez-vous l'anglais?"

Monsieur Fantôme stood up and walked over to the two of us, eyeing Nadir with an unimpressed look. "He does, and he knows you speak it primarily. He's just testing your skills in my language."

The Daroga inclined his head at me apologetically, so I smiled at him and posed a question to him. "Perhaps, over our dinner, you could tell me how you and Monsieur Fantôme became friends?" I could see Erik frowned at my use of 'friends' but he said nothing, instead allowing Nadir to nod.

Thankfully, Monsieur Fantôme had cooked us the meal whilst I was getting changed, so everything was already made and kept warm by one of his mechanisms. Like the polite gentleman he was, Nadir pulled out my seat for me and sat down opposite, leaving Erik to sit between us. Though the Daroga's voice was nowhere near as mesmerising and velveteen as Erik's, his voice still held a certain charm that left me perfectly happy to just sit and listen as he told me stories upon stories.

I had guessed that a large part of this world I had found myself in was from Kay's 'Phantom', as shown by Ayesha's existence, and Nadir's stories confirmed this to me. Monsieur Fantôme occasionally added his input, giving details I'd never heard of when Nadir missed or mistook something, but usually remained silent.

"Erik really was the most incredible magician, you know. I'm surprised you couldn't tell, since he does have the air of mystery about him." The Daroga's eyes twinkled mischievously, and I chuckled.

"So what happened? The Shah heard and wanted him, yes, but surely that would only be a brief interest? I can't believe Erik stayed so long just through supposed 'magic'." Of course I knew why he had stayed, since his inventions soon turned sour at request and killed, but I felt like pressing for answers from them themselves. To see how much I could get away with, how much they would tell the truth or evade answering.

Erik cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable and Nadir shifted in his seat slightly. We had long since finished our meal, but I could tell that none of us had nothing else to do but talk. Was it bad I kind of enjoyed pushing?

"That's-" Nadir finally started, but Erik quickly interrupted him.

"The Shah made me his indirect assassin." His voice was blunt, bitterness sweeping into his words. "Some may have deserved it, but not all. I created chambers for their victims to die in."

I nodded carefully, trying to think of the correct words to say. "Would you change your actions, if you could go back?"

Erik paused, looking at a nervous Daroga thoughtfully. "Yes, perhaps, on some. Not all were innocent, and those guilty did deserve their fates." Nadir frowned, clearly disagreeing on Erik's concept of the death penalty but I mostly agreed with him and voiced such.

Both of the men looked at me surprised, so I resumed speaking to explain. "I think it is needed, such a harsh punishment, except only for the truly terrible. They are a danger to society, regardless of position in prisons, and even when locked up… influence spreads. Sometimes, just sometimes, you need to extinguish the damaging flame and not attempt to control it." At this, I felt the atmosphere shift and suddenly I was the nervous one, shuffling in my chair and avoiding eye contact. I saw Erik lean back in his chair, thoughtful in our shared perspectives, and Nadir nodded.

The conversation soon changed to Nadir's life in Persia, and what it was like there. I had travelled to a few places around the world, mostly in America, but Persia had not been one of them and I was curious to hear about it. He told me of his family, especially his son. Knowing what had happened, I made sure not to ask any questions regarding his son's death – that would be too much. When it started to get late, the Daroga stood up and bowed to me.

"It was wonderful to meet you, Mlle. I look forward to the next time." Once again, he took my hand and kissed it before turning to look at Erik with a determined look on his face. "And I will definitely see you again, Erik, my friend. Goodnight."

Erik got up wordlessly and moved to guide him out. As they were leaving, I heard the start of a new conversation but instead of trying to eavesdrop, I walked to my room - I refused to be rude to such kind men. After half an hour or so, Erik returned. Except I didn't realise he did and when he appeared behind me, I shrieked yet again. _'I swear, he has got to stop doing that!'_ I shook my head at him until I realised his expression was that of anger, not playfulness. His voice seemed to bellow, echoing in this underground lair.

"You knew my name before."


	5. Chapter 4

**_A/N; All Italic speech is the characters speaking in French. Future chapters will have the character consistently speaking French, unless otherwise stated._**

 ** _Also, thank you so much for all the follows on this! If you guys have any criticism or just wanna say something, please review! Other than that, enjoy :)_**

* * *

Alarmed, I jumped up so swiftly that my chair fell to the floor. His eyes were gleaming dangerously and I didn't recognise the man that towered before me. My breathing hitched, and I stumbled backwards as he took a step to me, his cloak billowing slightly out. When I stumbled, his hand quickly snaked out and pinned me against the wall by my throat. My own hands reached up automatically, trying to claw his grip off of me, but his other hand took my wrists and pinned them also.

"How?! Damn you!" His expression turned ugly, and the rage in his voice mangled its usual beauty. Gasping for air, I tried my best to speak.

"Monsieur…. S-stop, please…. Let me e-explain!" His grip lessened enough for me to breathe well enough, and I took a couple of seconds to try to collect myself. His eyes still burned into mine. "It was obvious that was your name! Who else would Nadir be talking to! And the way you avoided my questions a while back…. You had to have a name so why would I be surprised at Nadir's unveiling of it?! Believe me, Erik! Please…"

He snarled, tightening his grip back up. "No, no Mademoiselle," he spat at me, "that's not it. Your eyes betrayed your thoughts. It was not the fact you were not surprised, but the waiting for it. You knew it was to come. You knew, you little demon."

I could feel my fear starting to become overwhelmed by my own anger and I narrowed my eyes at him. Knowing he could potentially kill me, with the rest of my air being cut off, I lifted up my legs and kicked his hips. He was pushed backwards, surprised at my attack, and let go of me as he stumbled. Gulping in lungfuls of air, my hand moved to clutch protectively at my throat and I ran for the door. Once there, I slammed it shut and locked it, trapping him inside before I realised what I had done. _'Shit… he's going to be so pissed at me…'_ I winced, only imagining his reaction as he tried to yank the door open. After several moments of the door shaking and thumping, it went silent.

"…Erik?" I got no response. "Erik, I did just assume. Believe me, please. You have no reason not to!" I'll admit, I was desperate. This man was one of my favourite characters in a story, whatever the form. Now that I knew the real thing, I didn't want to let go. Someone put their hand on my shoulder suddenly and I jumped… again. Spinning, I faced Erik looking at me without any expression. I felt nervous knowing he was just studying me.

"You know enough of my language to survive. Come. It is time you left."

* * *

The trip upstairs was awkward and quiet. It was still the night, quite late in fact, and I was unsure of what to do. Erik had allowed me to take some clothes in a small case, just to aid me to live, and even gave me a purse with some money to which I was grateful for. But he spoke to me from a distance, and it hurt knowing that whatever goodness we previously had, no matter how minimal, was gone thanks to paranoia. Granted, he was right – I did know who he was, of course, everything about him – but it hurt nonetheless. I thought telling him would be more dangerous, and could disrupt the story. God knows what would happen then.

Seeing the corridors I've imagined from the books, watched from the movie, was both frightening and amazing. Despite the strange atmosphere between Erik and I, a grin was unfurling from my lips and I would glance around with wonder. Erik stiffened every time I brushed too close to him, but I did my best to ignore this.

"Monsieur…? Erik, where are you taking me?" I pressed once again. He had remained silent all throughout the walking, regardless of how loud or often I questioned him, but now he answered.

"You recall I mentioned the Opera Populaire?" His voice was soft, but it silenced every sound in these corridors, demanding my attention. I muttered a yes, and he continued. "You will stay there, under supervision. Your piano is now better than the previous pianist, and you will work."

"If I refuse?"

"I suggest you don't." His response was quiet, yet still commanding. I nodded, thoughtful and slightly relieved. Not only was my future secure whilst I was present in this world, but I would actually be close to everything. It was better than I thought.

"Merci, Erik. Thank you."

The rest of the walk passed by quickly, and we came to an entrance to a room. Stepping through, Erik strode over to an older woman; Madame Giry. They conversed swiftly, getting right to the point of all this. She gazed at me with a scrutinising eye as Erik spoke, and grabbed my arm to pull me away and out of the room. Turning back, I smiled gratefully at Erik as I left and he nodded back, saying nothing.

"This way. Quickly. It is late." Madame Giry tugged at me, pulling me through what seemed like a labyrinth of several halls and corridors. It took ten minutes, most of which I was protesting at her painful grip, but we finally reached a small set of dormitories. She guided me to a bed in the corner, away from the other sleeping girls, and I fell upon it exhausted. "Rest. Be awake at sunrise, and I will take you to our manager." My last thought before I fell asleep, after I had changed and slipped under the blankets, was how Madame Giry reminded me of a French Professor McGonagall.

* * *

I woke up with a bunch of faces staring at me, making me blush and bury myself under my blankets. It was too early to deal with explanations of how I appeared so suddenly. The girls instantly began to throw questions at me, so I sighed and sat up. _"Uh… Hello."_

One girl, her blonde hair curling around her shoulders, leapt forward and took my arm. I recognised her as Meg, Madame Giry's daughter. _"Hello, Mlle! Are you new?"_ I nodded and she grinned, clapping her hands together. _"Wonderful! My name is Meg. What is yours, Mlle?"_

" _Melody… It's Melody."_ I croaked out, my voice still weak from sleep. Still, Meg and the other girls just looked like I had the voice of an angel as their eyes lit up.

" _Melody… do you sing then?"_ Another girl chorused at me, and I did not recognise her.

" _No, I do not. I play the piano."_ I shook my head, then gasped. I was supposed to find Madame Giry. _"I'm supposed to be auditioning for a job right now. Do any of you know where Madame Giry is?"_ Shooting up and out of bed, I rummaged around in my case to find some suitable clothes as I spoke. Meg smiled, and assured me that she'd take me over there once I had changed. In a matter of minutes, she and I were running down the corridors – her running, I should say; I merely staggered there.

Meg led me through a labyrinth of hallways and open spaces, making me dizzy to follow, and soon we arrived at the stage area. Madame Giry stood, stern yet kindly smiling at me, next to a frantic manager holding a letter sealed with a red wax skull. Down below, in the orchestra's pit, there was yet another man tapping impatiently; Messieurs Lefevre and Reyer. Copying Meg, I bowed my head and curtseyed to all of them.

" _Messieurs, this is the girl I was speaking to you about. The one who is to stay."_ Madame Giry gazed pointedly at Monsieur Lefevre's note and he nodded.

" _Well, Mlle Melody. We don't have all day. You're a…?"_ Lefevre directed at me.

" _Pianist, Monsieur."_ Monsieur Reyer looked delighted; I suppose usually they just get chorus girls and not a musician.

" _What are you waiting for, Mlle? Come here and play!"_ Monsieur Reyer gestured down in the pit, and I hopped down to a lovely piano. Uncertain of what would be best, I thought for a moment about playing Für Elise, but soon decided against it - I didn't know it well enough yet. However, what I did know was from Hamilton, the musical. I only hoped it was good enough for them.

Closing my eyes briefly, I tried my best to recall the notes and tune. When I opened them, they were all looking at me as if I was insane. Grinning, albeit somewhat nervously, I began to play. Though I wasn't singing aloud, in my head the lyrics focused, allowing the melody to flow at the correct speed. Forgiveness… _'Do I forgive Erik for hurting me? I understand his anger, his paranoia, but what he did was abusive…'_ I poured my heart into that song, imagining his face in the last scene of the story, how he looked when Christine chose Raoul, and I sighed. I knew I'd already forgiven him, and even more determined to help him. I know what a broken heart feels like, being used by my first love was horrible. I would help him no matter the cost of myself.

When I played the last few notes, a tear ran down my cheek and I wiped it away, blushing. Monsieur Reyer cleared his throat, and Madame Giry smiled at me. Meg was crying also, but she was beaming at me, and I'll admit that she looked extraordinarily beautiful underneath the candles. Lefevre looked at Reyer, who offered his hand to me.

" _Well, Mlle, I believe you outshine our previous pianist. Wonderful, and congratulations. Rehearsals will start tomorrow for the new opera."_

Corridors away, a hand, gloved with black leather, placed a single red rose onto my bed, tied with a dark ribbon.


End file.
